Measure of a Man
by Gameboy Rocker
Summary: Castiel is human and is finding his new emotions hard to deal with, particularly his relationship with Dean. Slow-building DeanxCas.
1. Chapter 1

**I know this isn't very long, but I wanted some feedback on my Castiel voice before I go too far with it. I'm not sure, but something about it just seems...off. Or maybe not, maybe I'm just too critical ;) And to those of you who are reading/have read Holmes is Where the Heart Is, don't worry, I'm not going to forget about it! I had this idea eating away at me and had to get it down :)**

**I'm thinking this will eventually turn into a Dean/Castiel story with a twist, which will be revealed later. But first, it's going to show Castiel's new emotions as a human. I was watching Two Minutes to Midnight when I came up with this, so this first part will take place during that episode. **

Fortunately for Castiel, it didn't take angelic powers to convince his doctor that he was fit to be discharged. But even if it had've, he had a plan—sneak out and hope that nobody confronted him. Sure it wasn't idea, but give the guy a break. He's only human.

Ok, so maybe he wasn't one-hundred percent human, but he certainly wasn't an angel any longer. As soon as he regained consciousness, the weight of this realization came crashing down on him like an enormous wave on the sand. Two things simultaneously clued him in—number one, he felt light. The familiar, heavy weight of his wings was gone, and he missed it.

The first time he'd managed to crawl out of the bed himself had been a complete disaster; he had, to put it mildly, greatly overestimated the amount of exertion it would take to push himself up, and had ended up sprawled on the ground. As he was lying on the ground, he was hit with another wave of negativity. He couldn't fly anywhere. Obvious as it was, Castiel's now-limited brain was having a hard time accepting the fact. His mouth twisted into a grimace as images of airplanes, busses, automobiles, and even a boat, flashed through his mind. He wanted nothing to do with any of them.

The second thing he was missing was the familiar presence of his brothers and sisters. Now, he was by himself. Alone. It was something he'd never experienced before, and he didn't like it. Even if he didn't have the ability to hear the conversation of other angels, he'd always been able to feel them, and it had been the most wonderful sensation. The closest comparison he could make was that he felt _full_. Whole. Complete.

Castiel pulled his trench coat tighter around his body when he stepped out of the hospital; he was _cold_. He looked around and saw that most people were wearing heavy coats which were obviously more suited to the weather. His hands, in particular, were chilled to the bone, and he rubbed them together furiously before stuffing them into his pockets as he'd seen the Winchester brothers do before. It wasn't much, but it did seem to help a little.

He had left the hospital without calling Dean again; he'd been so anxious to get _out _of the place. Now that he _was_ out, he realized that he had no idea what he should be doing. He clenched his fists in sheer annoyance, and he felt the flex travel all the way up to his biceps. He hastily pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed just as Dean had shown him—push two, and then the little green phone.

The phone rang once, twice, before the hunter's familiar deep, rough voice answered. _"Yeah?"_

Castiel returned his free hand to the warmth of his pocket. "Hello, Dean."

"_Cas, hey. Where are you?"_

Castiel swerved his head around, taking in his surroundings. "I am standing on a curb by a particularly busy road. Across the road is a Starbucks, a McDonalds, an…an _exotic fantasies_ shop—"

Dean's voice in his ear interrupted him. _"Cas…that's lovely, but it's not what I meant. Look, Sam and I are packing up to go get Pestilence; are you coming, or what?"_

Castiel shook his head, only to stop when he immediately realized that Dean couldn't see the motion. "Yes. Which bus should I take?"

There was nothing but silence on Dean's end, and then Castiel could hear a muffled, _"He wants to know what bus to take!"_, followed by a snort of laughter that sounded suspiciously like Sam's.

"Dean?"

"_Yeah, Cas. Sorry. Bobby's looking it up now. You've never taken a bus before, have you?"_

"No. But my vessel has."

"_Yeah, well I don't think that's going to be very helpful. Ok, you're going to want to get to New Orleans; it's not too far from where you're at. Then find the Greyhound bus station and catch the first one coming to Davenport, Iowa. Got it?"_

Castiel nodded. "I believe so. Dean—"

"_Cas, I've gotta go," _Dean interrupted. _"Just—call me when you get to Davenport, all right?"_

The line clicked dead before Castiel could respond. He looked around again, eyes wide with curiosity, and realized that, even though he was in the middle of a rather busy city, with people all around, he felt something.

He felt alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**So, here are my disclaimers: number one, I don't own Supernatural or the characters. Number two, I've never been to Louisiana so I'm not incredibly familiar with the geography, and number three, I've never taken a Greyhound bus, so I'm not really sure how they work-I was going after my experience with busses here in town. Not the same, I'm sure, but I'm working with what I've got :) I don't think it unlikely that Castiel could walk to New Orleans. I mean, he's human now, but I still believe that he'd be able to do it. Jimmy's in shape ;) And yeah, even though he's down South, I'm sure it gets relatively cold there outside at night. Especially when you're out there ALL night. So, forgive the discrepancies that happen in this chapter, lol! I do like this chapter though. In it, Castiel eats Chinese food, pines for his Father, and decides that he hates carrying around change. Who doesn't?**

Castiel walked to New Orleans. It took him until nightfall, and by the time he**—**_finally_—saw the sign announcing his destination, he was ready to collapse into a chair and never stand up again. His teeth were chattering and his hands were numb, but thank God, he was _here_.

The Greyhound station was surprisingly easy for him to locate; the woman he had asked, a thin, blonde haired girl, had told him to take his first right, then his third left, and then his first right. When he'd arrived at the station, he was told that the next bus bound directly for Davenport was set to arrive in a quarter of an hour. He had barely made it. He was given a ticket and a full schedule of the upcoming journey.

Castiel had enough sense to know that he had a long ride ahead of him, so he made a quick stop into a bookstore located inside the station and bought the only book that held any interest for him—_The_ _Holy Bible. _It was the King James Version, his personal favorite, with a simple black leather cover and the words of Christ written in red.

By the time he got back to the bus hub, his bus had already arrived and a small line of people was present to board. Castiel joined them. After presenting his ticket to the driver—despite the fact that he had watched everybody in front of him feed their tickets into the machine inside the bus, he still couldn't seem to grasp the concept—he approached the back of the bus and took a window seat on the right-hand side. He much preferred to see the side of the road as opposed to passing cars.

The bus remained parked for a few more moments. He counted the amount of people onboard and came to twenty-seven. He was dangerously close to being forced to sit next to somebody. Fortunately, as the last person sat down in a seat that wasn't next to him, the driver closed the doors and revved up the engine.

Castiel rubbed his legs gently; they were throbbing. Dean had been right—angels don't walk enough. I'll have to tell the other about this, he told himself. Assuming I ever see them again.

In addition to the painful feeling in his legs, he was experiencing another new sensation—his eyelids felt heavy. He found that he was having a hard time keeping them open. And he _yawned_.

_I'm tired,_ he realized. _I think I'm actually experiencing _fatigue_. But what…what do I do?_

Castiel considered reaching into his pocket for his cellphone to call Dean but decided against it. Dean was busy, too busy for him. Besides, he had seen humans fall asleep before. There didn't seem to be anything to it…just get a pillow, a blanket, and close your eyes.

He pulled off his trench coat, followed by his jacket. The jacket he balled up and placed between the window and his head, the trench coat he draped over his body. Now that his outer layers were removed, he felt himself feeling exposed—strange, as he still had on a shirt and undershirt and, of course, his pants, shoes, and socks.

Castiel closed his eyes, and in only a few minutes, he was engulfed by the sleep that he so badly needed.

**/break\**

When Castiel awoke, it was still dark outside. The bus was driving on a highway barely-lit by the occasional streetlight. He extracted his phone from his pocket to check the time—10:22pm. He'd been asleep barely an hour and a half. The bus was dark except for one seat towards the front; the elderly woman occupying it was sleeping, but it seemed she'd forgotten to turn off her light.

Castiel flicked his hand, and tried to ignore the disappointment that swelled up in his chest when the light remained on. He hadn't _really_ expected it to work, but part of him had hoped that his Father had forgiven him and returned his powers.

No such luck, of course.

_I'm sorry_, Castiel prayed for what could have been either the hundredth or the thousandth time; he'd lost track. He let his gaze lift from the street side to the sky, which was littered with stars, as if someone had dropped silver glitter onto a piece of black felt. _Father, I'm sorry. I don't…I don't know what it is that I did, or didn't do, that's angered You, but whatever it is, I am _sorry_. Please, Father. Give me a sign. Not that You're out there, just…just show me that You still love me. _Please_._

Castiel's eyes drifted shut, and he waited expectantly. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.

"No," he said aloud, his voice dripping with bitterness. He flipped open his Bible to Luke, chapter four, verse twelve, and silently mouthed the words, 'thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God'. He repeated the words over and over again in his head, a futile attempt to convince himself that God was, indeed, listening to him, just not responding.

_Not responding._

_That's even worse than not listening._

After flipping a few pages forward in the Bible, to John 14:18, he read: _I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. _

_I will come to you._

_I will come to you._

_I will come to you._

Castiel jerked in surprise when the driver's voice came over the speakers, announcing that they were nearing the Baton Rouge station and should begin to gather up their belongings. Castiel did so, pulling both jackets back onto his body, and holding his Bible firmly in both hands. Sure enough, within minutes the bus had pulled into the crowded station.

As he and most of the other passengers filed off the bus, Castiel felt a painful churning in his stomach, followed by a loud growl. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before—he not only _heard_ his stomach growling, but _felt _it, too.

Hunger, Castiel realized. I'm experiencing hunger. He glanced at his schedule, then at his phone. He had only twenty minutes to get something to eat and find his next bus.

As he entered the station, he smelled something, and the smell made his stomach roar again. It was a sweet smell, but with a savory side, almost an afterthought. It wasn't hard to tell where the smell was coming from; he was practically standing right next to it—it was a small restaurant, practically built into the wall of the bus station, named Timmy's Wok. Two Asian women were standing behind the counter, holding out small paper cups containing large pieces of chicken to the men and women passing by.

Castiel boldly approached the counter as he pat his coat pocket, making sure the wad of money that he'd received before he left the hospital was still there. Bobby had sent him two-hundred and fifty dollars, and, after buying his bus ticket and his Bible, he had only fifty left.

"Hello sir!" one of the women said, smiling kindly at him. "Sample?"

"Uh…all right, thank you." Castiel took a cup from her and picked up the piece of chicken that was skewered onto a toothpick, orange, shiny, sticky. He sniffed at it, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that _this_ was the source of the wonderful smell. He put the whole piece into his mouth and chewed it slowly, savoring it. The last time he'd eaten meat, it had been raw and rotting—this was a nice change.

"I'll have this," he said to the woman.

She nodded, the smile never leaving her face. "White or fried rice?" she asked. Her voice was heavily accented, and at first Castiel had thought she had asked him, "Why or fry wise?" Thankfully, his eyes had darted past her and at the menu, and he had seen the words written and inferred what she really asked.

His brow furrowed. "I don't…I…what's the difference?"

The corners of the woman's mouth dropped a little bit. She turned and pointed to the menu hanging on the wall, first to a picture of a bowl filled with something white, and the second time, to a bowl of a brown substance specked with green, orange, and yellow objects.

"White rice, fried rice," she said. Her smile broadened again. "I like white rice."

Castiel nodded. "White rice it is, then. Thank you for your advice."

She giggled, but, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. After picking up a large Styrofoam box, she scooped a large portion of the orange chicken into it, followed by a heaping pile of rice. "Anything else, sir?"

Castiel's eyes danced over the food displayed in front of him. Everything looked good, and he wanted to try it all, but he forced himself to give her a small, polite grin and shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Six ninety-five, sir."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the three bills he had left, two twenties and a ten. There were some assorted coins left in his pocket, but they were too confusing. He'd have to ask Dean what they all meant, and why they came in different sizes and colors.

Castiel stared at the bills for only a second before handing the woman the ten. "This one, right?"

Her mouth dropped open a little bit. "Yes, that's enough."

She took the bill from him and handed him his box of food, along with a slim packet containing two long, wooden sticks. Castiel turned to sit down at one of the tables, but was stopped when he heard the woman shouting after him.

"Sir! Sir! Your change!"

He turned around and cocked his head. "I don't need change. This is what I wanted."

She waved her hand, which was holding three bills. "No, sir, your _change. _Three o'five."

Castiel took the bills from her slowly, as if he expected her to change her mind and keep them. When she tried to give him the single coin, he waved his hand. "No, thank you. I have enough of those already."


End file.
